


Run Away Xander

by Thea_Bromine



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thea_Bromine/pseuds/Thea_Bromine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander is rude to Giles. Giles deals with it. Then Giles deals with the rest of Xander's problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Away Xander

It was Oz who told him that he had gone too far.

He’d been pushing all the time they had been in the library, and it was no use Willow looking at him with her mouth open, or Buffy kicking him under the table. He just... somehow he just couldn’t stop. It wasn’t as if it was new, teasing the G-Man. They all did it, and he did it more than most. Wind the Big Guy up and watch as he got more and more exasperated.

And this time, Giles, as usual, had glared at Xander, nothing new there, but beside him, Oz hissed sharply, and that – a _reaction_ from Oz – was enough to tell Xander, as if he didn’t already know, that he had crossed the line from teasing to rude.

Giles let it pass.

And _that_ itched like poison oak. He didn’t know why but... Giles didn’t even _say_ anything. Glared at him and didn’t _say_ anything and wasn’t that just the way it always was, that Giles barely looked at him and _yes_ , he knew that he wasn’t making sense, he wasn’t making sense even to himself. Giles didn’t even look at him, and he didn’t like that, and then Giles glared at him, and he didn’t like _that_ either.

It was as if he didn’t fit in his own skin. He’d been that way since... he didn’t know. He’d quarrelled with Cordelia, like that was a surprise, and he’d got snippy with Buffy and she’d just stared at him, and he’d tried to pick a fight with Willow – with _Willow?_ – and had had to back away when her lip trembled and her eyes filled. He’d nipped and sniped at Oz, and Oz had just given that faint smile, patted him on the shoulder and gone off on his own. He’d missed library time the day before because he’d had a detention from Snyder for insolence, and he couldn’t even say that it wasn’t fair, not when he thought about what he’d said. It _wasn’t_ fair, though.

He was just _all wrong_ and he didn’t know why. All the time, he was feeling as if he _wanted_ something and couldn’t have it, feeling irritable and hard done by and sorry for himself, but he didn’t know what he wanted or why he wasn’t to have it, and he knew quite well that he was behaving badly in picking on other people just to make himself feel better. Giles was just next on the list, and an easy target.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, the Xander who ran away from trouble was cowering, sucking his thumb and whimpering, and at intervals trying to remind him that they knew about Ripper, and that pushing Giles too far was not real smart, and if Xander could have picked a quarrel with Run Away Xander, he’d have done that too.

Because how _dared_ Giles ignore him? And when he’d come into the library, he’d been the first there, and Giles had said, “Oh, hello, Xander; you’re first today,” and what did he mean by that? So what if Xander was first? There was no pleasing Giles: if Xander came first, Giles needled him about it, and the other day Xander had been last in, and he’d barely had a chance to sit down before Giles had said, “Well, now that we’re all here...” and like what the hell? Why was he always _getting_ at Xander?

Even before Oz hissed the second time, Xander knew that his mouth was running way ahead of his brain. What he _didn’t_ expect was for Giles, without hesitating – without hesitating _physically_ , and without stammering more than usual – to walk around the table, catch Xander by one ear, and haul him up out of his seat.

Teachers, and with teachers he included school librarians, must, he thought resentfully, be taught in training college about subtle forms of violence that didn’t leave any evidence. He was half way across the library when Giles let go of his ear, only to take a grip on a single lock of hair in front of his ear. Xander heard himself give a ridiculous high-pitched squeak of pain when he tried to twist away; Giles pulled again and Xander had no choice but to follow. He wasn’t sure where they were going; he half expected the door to swing into view and to be pushed out through it, but they seemed to be moving the other way, towards the steps. The steps?

Yes, apparently, the steps. Another sharp tug had him staggering along at Giles’ side, his eyes watering, one hand clawing at Giles’ wrist in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to get free, the other arm swinging wildly as he tried to catch his balance, and a stream of Xander-babble dropping from his lips. He wasn’t sure what he was saying, except that most of it was along the lines of ‘Ow! Ow! Let go! Giles, let _go!’_ and Giles was neither letting go nor allowing himself to be interrupted, but continuing to speak calmly and coherently on the subject of Miske demons and salt water, as if a struggling teenager was a normal daily occurrence.

For all Xander knew, it was.

They reached the steps and Giles stopped, which was a relief, because he would let go now, right? Oh, no, apparently he wouldn’t. He tugged again and Xander's head twisted in an attempt to ease the pull; Giles put one foot up on the second step and Xander found himself staggering into the brace of the G-Man’s thigh just as Giles let go of his hair – oh, the _relief_ – and instead gripped him by the back of the neck and pushed.

He was already off balance physically, and the sudden realisation of what Giles was doing left him off balance mentally to match. He tipped forward, his mind desperately trying to put together some intelligent and adult objection, as Giles’ grip transferred itself to his wrist, which was tucked carefully into the small of his back, with only enough upward pressure to lever his shoulders downward and...

His ass up. Over Giles’ knee. No, this could _not_ be happening. It couldn’t be the case that he wasn’t tall enough to fight efficiently once his arm was pinioned behind him. It couldn’t be the case that Giles’ elbow was resting on his back, trapping his torso against Giles’ thigh. It absolutely could _not_ be the case that Giles’ hand was coming down _hard_ on his ass, hard enough to make him jump, while Giles continued to talk, placidly, steadily, articulately, about _demons_.

This was – no. This was _so_ not happening.

Except that it was. That noise was Giles’ palm landing on Xander's ass, and it was happening in full view of the others. This wasn’t something of which Xander had any experience – his dad occasionally threatened him with a hiding, but he had never carried through, and his mom preferred to weep at him when she was mad about something he’d done. He didn’t remember _ever_ being smacked this way. It didn’t even feel like Giles was particularly angry, although hell, from the way he was going about it, he wasn’t ever going to stop. This wasn’t a hasty flurry of slaps being delivered by somebody at the absolute end of his patience, or an attempt to break Xander using violence. It was just whack after whack after whack on the seat of Xander's pants, steady as a metronome, with a burn growing in his ass and another in his ears from the sheer shame of being spanked like a little kid, and Giles talking over his head about demons.

He didn’t even fight. He didn’t know why not. He hung, head down, across Giles’ thigh, giving occasional tiny squirms when Giles caught a particularly tender spot. He didn’t cry out: it was painful but not painful enough to make him yell. He felt raw, not on his skin but in his emotions, which were cracking like the coating on a cheap choc ice, flaking away, leaving him uncovered and sensitive to a breath, to a glance.

He heard himself make an odd noise: something between a gasp and a plea, on one word. “Giles?”

Then he was being swung upright by a hand in his collar, and marched back across the library, propelled by the same hand against his back, while Giles’ smooth voice continued to lecture about the difference between Miske demons and Killmorah imps. He was delivered to his chair, and pressure on his shoulder told him that he was expected to sit, which he did, cautiously. It didn’t hurt, precisely. His ass itched, and his face was hot with inversion and embarrassment. Willow cast a single glance at him, and looked away; Buffy was pointedly looking at the book in front of her; Oz drew his feet back to make room for Xander's legs.

Giles delivered himself of three more concise sentences, and wrapped up his address with, “So we all know what we’re doing, for once?”

Buffy bounced up, still not looking at Xander. “Catch ’em, squish ’em with contact lens saline, hit ’em with a club, run away.”

“Well, that, that about covers it, yes,” agreed Giles. “Are we ready, then?”

Oz shrugged and got up, reaching for a bottle from the box with the optician’s logo on the side, passing it on to Willow, and taking another for himself. Xander hesitated, suddenly and surprisingly unsure of his place in this group; Giles lifted a bottle and held it out to him, and automatically his hand went out to take it. Their fingers brushed, and Xander trembled.

He did well in the demon hunt; the only person with a higher hit rate than him was Buffy. For once he was entirely focused on what he was supposed to be doing, possibly because any time his mind wandered, it wandered towards what had happened in the library and he was _so_ not going to think about that, so he concentrated on killing demons.

Giles smiled at him when they stopped to draw breath, and said something soft and approving; Xander opened his mouth to allow out the usual flow of babble, and nothing happened.

He was still silent when they went back to clean and rack the weapons, not that wooden clubs needed much cleaning. He polished his regardless, because that was better than thinking.

“Xan? We could drop you off at home if you wanted?” That was Willow and she _knew_ that wasn’t how things went. After a demon hunt, Oz took Willow and Buffy home in the van, and Giles drove Xander home, either to his parents’ house, or if things were hairy there, to Giles’ apartment and the couch that was horribly uncomfortable and still better than going home. Oz didn’t want to have to take the bad junction on Bleasdale in the dark if he didn’t have to, but when Xander looked at him, he merely looked back, calmly enquiring, keys swinging from his fingers. Buffy glanced over at the office door, behind which Giles was doing something Gilesy and organisational.

“If you don’t want to...” she began hesitantly, obviously not sure how to say ‘if you don’t want to share a car with a man who whupped your ass with all of us watching’, “I mean, if you’d rather come home with us tonight...” Her voice trailed away, and Xander shook his head.

He didn’t know why. Oz, though, nodded approvingly, and Willow tilted her head, and said doubtfully, “If you’re sure...”

He wasn’t. He didn’t know why he was staying.

Neither, apparently, did Giles. He disguised it well, but when the others called their goodnights, and the door swung shut behind them, Giles emerged from the office and Xander saw the hastily suppressed start. They looked at each other across the half lit library for a moment, and then Giles tipped his head enquiringly, although he didn’t speak.

Xander looked away; Giles picked up the first of the books and made for the stairs, not hurrying. Xander looked back just in time to see Giles set his foot on the first step, and a hot wash of... of some unidentifiable emotion, of mingled humiliation and surprise and unhappiness and longing _for what?_ broke over him. He was paralysed: normally he helped with the last of the shelving, carrying piles of books for Giles to put away, and this time he just sat, watching Giles come and go, unable to think of anything to say, or anything to do, until suddenly he broke from his seat like a rabbit breaking from the gaze of a snake, and bolted, panic-stricken, into the depths of the stacks.

Giles obviously heard him, because he was already coming back when Xander rounded the last bookcase; his face was creased with concern and Xander noted it even as he flung himself forward, hands clutching at Giles’ lapels and then sliding up and around his neck in desperation, cheek rubbing against the tweed, and Run Away Xander at the back of his mind going ‘Wait! _What?_ ’ as he mashed his mouth against Giles’, and waited for the sky to fall.

There was certainly a crash, but the sharp pain in his ankle allowed him to identify it as less celestial disaster, more dropped books, and he disregarded it as irrelevant in the face of the fact that Giles _wasn’t pushing him away_.

O.K., now Normal Xander agreed with Run Away Xander: wait, _what?_ Because Giles had his hands on Xander's shoulders, and his head canted at an easy angle, and there could be no possible doubt about it, he had his mouth open, and was accommodating Xander's panting desperation. He was quite definitely participating in what was turning into one of the better kisses in Xander's admittedly limited experience.

He was making out with Giles.

And suddenly it all made... well, no, it didn’t. It didn’t make _any_ sense at all. None. At least it made no sense to him, but Giles was steadying Xander's head between his big hands, gentling the kiss and finally drawing away, and Xander thought he might howl with bewilderment and loss.

“I wondered if that might be it,” observed Giles cryptically, but before Xander could manage his usual articulate “huh?” Giles had closed in again and now _he_ was in charge.

So Xander was totally on board with Giles being in charge. Was he ever. The G-Man knew what he was doing, at least in the serious kissage department. He kissed as if he could do it without the thought-scattering that happened in Xander's head, as if there was nothing else he should be doing, and nothing else he _wanted_ to be doing.

There was sure as hell nothing else that Xander wanted him to be doing. No, Xander thought that in this world, or indeed any other one, a man should be left to do what he did best and in this case that appeared to mean leaving Giles to explore every last millimetre of Xander's mouth while one large strong hand cradled the back of his head and the other kneaded slowly at his hip. By the time Giles let him go, Xander's eyes were shut and his mind had gone to a very happy place indeed, and was wondering if his body would be allowed to join it.

“Is this what you want, Xander?”

It _so_ was and excuse me, when had that happened? Gay now, and was that a surprise? Not, apparently, to Giles, but to Xander? Xander would admit to a tiny bit of astonishment, for a given value of tiny, and meaning absolutely enormous. O.K., so the dreams, and the daydreams, and the wondering about Giles, and about Larry and about that blond boy on the swim team, the one who _hadn't_ grown gills and fins? Everybody knew that when you dreamed about something, it meant that what you wanted was something totally different, but apparently he couldn’t even do _that_ right. When he had dreamed about having sex with Giles, he’d thought it meant something to do with his relationship with Cordelia, and oh look! It _actually_ meant that he wanted to have sex with Giles.

Not that he was able to say so. The best he could do was lean back in and lift his face hopefully, but Giles seemed to be on board with that, cupping his hands around Xander's jaw and doing some more of the really good kissage. This wasn’t the desperate tonsil hockey with which Xander was familiar from Cordelia and Faith and the few girls he had made out with: this was slow and warm and strong, and it was getting him more turned on than he thought he had ever been. Giles was backing up, and Xander considered whimpering in objection, except that Giles was drawing him along, teasing him with those fabulous kisses. They reached the end of the aisle, and the table for the bigger reference books, and Giles hitched his hip onto it and squirmed back, still coaxing Xander after him, until suddenly Xander was sitting in the G-Man’s lap, still kissing, with Giles feathering a thumb lightly over his cheekbone.

“Is this what you want?”

It was a little more insistent; Giles wanted an answer. He managed a nod into the tweedy chest, and then thought that it was rude (Run Away Xander hinted at where ‘rude’ had got him earlier, and suddenly, much to his surprise, that was _hot_ – not so much what Giles had done, but the fact that he wasn’t willing to stand any more of Xander's crap). He looked up into concerned eyes and his mouth quivered, but he managed to get the words out. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. It is. What I want, I mean.”

“You realise we’ll have to be very discreet?”

Well, _duh_ , with the school librarian and him being not under-age, thank goodness, his birthday was past, but even he couldn’t deny that he was young, and the Watching and the Slayage and it wasn’t like they didn’t already have practice in being discreet. But he managed another nod and hoped that Giles would stop talking, although two sentences was hardly _talking_ , and kiss him some more.

Then it occurred to him that they appeared to have reached an agreement, which meant that he didn’t have to wait for Giles to kiss him, he could kiss Giles. So he did that.

It was just as good second time around and when he squirmed a little in Giles’ lap to get a better angle, he realised that Giles was liking it too, and just that knowledge was enough to have him ready to come in his pants. He twisted, got one knee either side of Giles’ legs, and wriggled in close, with some idea of them being able to rub against each other, but the angles were wrong until Giles worked himself back off the table and set Xander on his feet.

“Gently, now,” he admonished. “Frotting in the library can’t be counted ‘discreet’.” But his hips were rocking too, and he leaned down and whispered wickedly, “It’s good though.”

It was. Xander was getting sparks behind his eyelids, and he could hear himself gasping for breath; it took a real effort not to whine like a puppy, and not to hump Giles’ thigh like a puppy, too.

“What else do you want, Xander? How far do you want to go?”

He had to say it, though, however little he wanted to remind Giles of how young and goofy and inexperienced he was. He swallowed. Somehow he knew that hints weren’t going to cut it, not with Giles. He couldn’t pretend to more knowledge, more experience than he had, not with Giles. Not with _Giles_. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. I’ve never... not with another guy.” He didn’t want to look up into Giles’ face, didn’t want to see... he wasn’t sure what Giles’ reaction would be, but he couldn’t _not_ look, either. He supposed he’d admitted to Faith that he hadn't known what he was doing, and at the time it had been O.K., even if afterwards hadn’t been so wonderful. At least he thought that Giles would be kinder than Faith. No, he had to look. “I’ve never even touched another guy. Never kissed another guy. I don’t know what I want.”

Faith had just shrugged and encouraged him on (“I’ll steer you ‘round the curves”); Giles went very still, and an expression Xander couldn't read flickered across his face. Maybe Giles didn’t want a complete novice. He braced himself for the crash.

“I’m the first?”

He looked away and nodded, ashamed and annoyed with himself for being ashamed. He was only eighteen, for fuck’s sake; what was Giles expecting? _Somebody_ had to be the first, and wasn’t it just Xander's luck to have a massive crush on a guy who didn’t want...

But Giles was nudging his chin up, coming in for another of those kisses, teasing his mouth open and breaking away to say softly, “ _Excellent._ You’ll tell me if I go too fast, or if I do anything you don’t like?”

He couldn’t imagine Giles doing anything he wouldn’t like, not now that there was a long thigh between his, setting up that delicious friction again; he made some garbled noise and blushed at it. Giles, though, drew away again. “I’m serious, Xander,” he said gently. “Don’t push yourself into anything you don’t want. I could be happy just with this, if that was all you wanted.”

“But there’s more?” It came out less the confident assertion it had sounded like in his head and more desperate begging, and he blushed again, but Giles seemed to understand.

“There’s as much more as you want. I’ll show you.” That was full of promise, and he shuddered; Giles smiled again. “I’ll be gentle with you.” He sounded amused and a week ago, Xander would have been offended, but now he got it, he got that at least half the time, Giles wasn’t laughing at _them_ , he was laughing at himself. He wondered how he could have missed it, but his body was less interested in what Giles was doing, and more interested in what Giles _wasn’t_ doing, and why he wasn’t doing it. More kissage, to start with. And more of that rocking and rubbing but Giles was turning him, twisting his shoulders gently and then tugging him until he got the idea and spooned back into the curve of the big body behind him. Yeah, Giles _was_ liking this, although that pressure in the crack of his ass was a little bit scary as well as a big bit exciting. That... that was Giles’ dick, snuggled up against Xander and obviously with intentions of its own.

Not that he had too long to think about it, because there was a tweedy arm around his waist, and a big hand walking down his body towards his... oh.

Oh _yeah_.

O.K., he’d had people – he had _girls –_  touching him before, and it wasn’t like this. Even when it was just pressure over the zip of his pants, it was _different_ when it was a big broad hand, and it was different when it was... the only thing he could think was, when it was somebody who had a dick himself and knew just where the good spots were.

Yeah, O.K., hello, gay now.

“Going to let me in?”

Huh? He might have said that out loud. Or not.

“Remember, you can stop me just by saying ‘stop’.”

His voice came out pitched a little high. “ _So_ don’t want you to stop, but might be a good idea, because hello, self-control, not so much, and it’s gonna be real embarrassing _any minute_.”

The fingers retreated a little.

“No need to be embarrassed.”

Hell, he was going to have to spell it out. “Giles, _nobody_ has ever touched me that way, or at least not a guy, and not standing up in a library, and if you do,” and he gulped, “I think I’ll just come on the spot. And it’s likely to be a big and very messy spot.”

Giles pressed a kiss on the side of his neck. “And this would be a problem because...?”

He gaped like a goldfish, his hips chasing that wonderful pressure – but some small part of his mind noticed that Giles’s hand was still. He was serious then. Stop meant Stop.

“Don’t you want me to make you come, Xander?”

And way to go with the making Xander's brains leak out through his ears. He wanted that more than he’d ever wanted _anything_ , even the glossy black ten-speed bike he’d lusted after when he’d been twelve and that his parents had promised him for Christmas. What he’d actually got had been a faded red girl’s shopper with a flat tyre, but Giles wasn’t like that with the promises. If Giles said he would make Xander come, then Xander might as well just close his eyes and wait for it to happen, because it was _so_ going to happen.

 _“Here?”_ In Giles’ _library_ , where he clucked about soda cans, and sugary fingers on his books, and candy wrappers on the floor? Giles, it seemed, heard what he meant as well as what he said.

“I could make the library your favourite place. You’ll want to spend all your free time here, if you say yes.”

He teetered on the brink, closed his eyes and stepped over the edge.

“Yes.”

Wow, there was that hand again, unfastening his pants, burrowing inside, wrapping itself around his dick and it was like when he did it himself, and not at all like. Left hand, for a start, and _not his_. But oh, it was good, that tight grip stopping it being _real_ embarrassing, although he was digging his nails into his thighs to keep it that way. He wasn’t going to last but this was too good to allow it to be over too quick. His head bumped on what must be Giles’ collar bone as his knees went to jello and he made a weird yearning sound; Giles’ breath huffed in his ear, and suddenly his earlobe was between Giles’ teeth being nibbled and sucked. That was good, but his brain was sparking with connections; if Giles’ mouth on his _ear_ was this good, how good would it be... other places?

“How many times do you think I can make you come tonight?” That was murmured wickedly into the damp ear, although he could barely hear it over the pounding of his heart. O.K., he’d been bad, he’d been rude to Giles, but Giles had punished him for it once already, it wasn’t fair that Giles was going to kill him as well. What he _could_ hear was Giles’ hand on his cock, because he was so close, so ready, that – yeah, he would be embarrassed if he thought there was any point in it. He could hear it because he was slick and wet and sticky and Giles’ palm must be slick and wet and sticky too.

As if he heard the thought – and Xander wouldn’t have been absolutely certain that he hadn't said it out loud – Giles eased his grip _oooh nonono not stopping, not stopping!_ Xander opened his eyes, head turning, mouth opening in indignation, only to see the Big Guy lifting his hand to his mouth, his expression so purely _sinful_ that Xander was amazed nobody had ever staked him, and oh dear heaven, he was licking his fingers, his gaze steadily on Xander.

That did it. That wet hand closed around his cock again, and his knees gave, his fingers curled into Giles’ forearm, and he came so hard his ears rang with it.

When the fuzzy darkness cleared from in front of his eyes, he opened his mouth, largely to see what dumb comment would come out.

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you carry such big handkerchiefs.”

The movement of Giles’ hand checked for a moment. “It’s, ah, it’s not the principal reason, but I’ll admit that it’s a useful side-effect.” Xander was tidied, and tucked neatly back inside his shorts and pants. His knees seemed to be an unmatched pair; he managed to turn, but he still had to lean on the Big Guy.

He was leaning on the Big Guy’s... um... not-actually-that-Little Guy. He looked down.

“You don’t have to,” murmured Giles. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” he said, surprising himself a little; twelve hours ago he’d have said he wanted nothing of the kind. “But...” ‘How’ was a stupid question; the same way Giles had just done would probably be good. Or... he had no idea how to blow a guy, but he was beginning to think that he could learn. Or... but that might be too much too soon.

“But perhaps not here?” suggested Giles diffidently. “Easier if we were lying down?” He sounded tentative, afraid of pushing, Xander realised.

“Yeah. Could we... could we go to yours? Or, or, sorry, do you need, do you want...” He trailed away, unable to find words to say ‘are you as desperate as I was five minutes ago? Is waiting, and walking, and driving a car, are they options?’

Giles straightened and smiled at him. “I can wait, particularly if I’m on a promise. Besides, that was my only handkerchief.”

Xander reached up to kiss him. “Promise.”

“Then, my flat? Comfort, less likely to be interrupted?”

“Endless supply of clean handkerchiefs?”

“Let’s go.”   

 

 

 

 


End file.
